


We'll Cross That Bridge When We Get To It

by FlashFlyingFish



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: America and Canada aren't related, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Father England (Hetalia), Father-Daughter Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Historical Hetalia, Human & Country Names Used (Hetalia), Implied Sexual Content, Mentions of Cigarettes, Mentions of War, Mentions of alcohol, Mentions of personified states/provinces, Mentions of smoking cigarettes, Mild Sexual Content, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Tension, Tags May Change, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:42:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23158000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlashFlyingFish/pseuds/FlashFlyingFish
Summary: It would be an American century & it didn't take a fortune teller to see it. Canadians had been warming to the idea of a new empire to bow to. Dragged into WW1 without a vote, devastated by indifferent British generals, Canada was ready to change best friends. Father could no longer come calling. England had always said America was a Siren's call, but what if he's wrong? Fem!Canada/America
Relationships: America/Female Canada (Hetalia)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29





	We'll Cross That Bridge When We Get To It

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia and as such, some characters may be OOC
> 
> **Author's Note:**  
>  This is my first fanfiction so comments are very much appreciated. Also, feel free to give concrit but please don't destroy my self-esteem ;)
> 
> I hope you all enjoy it!
> 
> _(PS. Please let me know if I missed a trigger so I can add it as well as keep it in mind for any fics down the line too. I like to have a list of potential triggers so I don't miss any particularly obscure ones)_

London, England: November 11, 1918

Soft panting was the only sound that could be heard throughout the empty park as the woman slowed her pace to one of leisure. Her chocolate ankle-height boots connecting softly with the ground beneath her. The hard-concrete pushing back against her aching feet helping to calm her erratic heartbeat and center the spinning world around her. Where was she heading? That hadn't been of concern to her when she had spat the words at him.

_" **Out.** " She growled at her adoptive father; eyes aflame. England's aggressive stance instantly deflated at the pure disdain woven into that singular word_. _Without even waiting for him to so much as stammer a half-wit reply to her words, she left_. _There wasn't a single string of words in the English language he could have strung together that would have mended his fuck-up._

Canada did a quick one-eighty on her heels, relishing the way her long skirt flowed through the movement along with her. Taking a shaky deep breath, she firmly planted her feet on the cold ground and let her head fall back until it lay near perpendicular to the dark sky above her. Closing her eyes, Canada forced herself to unclench her palms and relax her tense shoulders. _' **Relax** , Madeline, relax'_ was the mantra she repeated seemingly endlessly as she rolled the appendages within their sockets. The seconds drifted into minutes as she thought of nothing but letting go.

Pale eyelids slowly opened. Letting loose a steady and deep sigh, she narrowed tired eyes at the path before her as she resumed her quick-paced stroll through the park. Thick black clouds inched ever closer overhead; however, Canada took no heed of the danger those clouds promised. Instead, the strawberry blonde's focus was directed at the memories of the fight she'd just ran from.

It was ironic really, it should have been a night of celebration, of joy. But leave it to England to ruin a perfectly good evening with an argument. Now, she knew of a few people that might have argued that the evening had already been ruined by being forced to spend the night at home. But the fact of the matter was that Canada had actually been grateful for England's clipped proclamation of, _"Get in the car, we're heading home."_

The past four years spent in trench warfare had taken quite a toll on her sanity. She found herself constantly on edge, as though this peace wouldn't last, and she'd suddenly be thrown back into the muck of the trenches. Where gunfire and the wails of the damned were suffocating. That gnawing gut-wrenching feeling had been the very reason she'd been unable to tear her eyes away from her younger siblings for more than a moment. Terrified something horrible would befall them the second she wasn't watching.

She hadn't missed the way England's piercing emerald eyes kept coming back to herself and her adoptive siblings. To anyone else, England might have looked confident and threatening, if not predatory. Despite being dulled slightly by disinterest, as though this meeting was below him, those watchful sharp eyes gave him the appearance of a lion waiting to strike. But Canada knew him better than that, he had always been able to ooze confidence and power even when he wasn't in as much control as he wanted one to think. Having lived with him as long as she had, she could read him like a book. Could see what others could not.

His rough hands gripping the arms of his chair so tightly they shook. His back painfully straight without the chair's support. The way he looked about ready to jump into action at the drop of a pin. At the time she'd wanted nothing more than to gently lay her hands over his and stop their shaking and tell him that she felt it too, that she would **never** leave him, and she would help him work through whatever was bothering him _'so can you **please** let the creases on your forehead smooth? I'm right here, by your side.'_

However, she'd known better than to ask if he too felt what she did, she'd doubt he'd have admitted to sharing her paranoia. Somehow the familiarity of his coldness was of comfort to her confused mind, a constant she could depend on. She almost wanted to laugh at the thought.

_'What am I, a child? I shouldn't need his constancy to remain sane.'_

The thought shook her to her core. She had always relied on his stability, but where had that gotten her? Wasn't his refusal to accept change the reason they'd argued in the first place?

All she'd wanted was for him to understand that she was an important part of the empire and deserved to be treated like it. That for all she'd done for Europe and the Empire that when he called on her to sign the ceasefire, that America's leader does not proclaim her colony status as the sole reason she shouldn't be allowed to sign? For God's sake, she'd been the cannon fodder for his and America's men! Couldn't she just have this one signature? Why couldn't he defend her like he promised he always would?

**Instead,** England had decided that she needed to stop _'moping about'_ as he'd lovingly put it when she'd first complained.

_"Canada, you really shouldn't be dwelling on that, poppet. I must admit that your inclusion could be seen as strange considering I'd already signed it"_ England had countered, placing a firm callused hand upon her shoulders, squeezing reassuringly.

England had been right, he always was. And Canada knew that, knew better than anyone that to question his judgement was foolish. So, she couldn't understand why her blood seemed to rebel against her better judgement and boil upon the recollection of his words. All Canada did know was that a feeling deep within her screamed, _'Your people deserved to be recognized for their bravery as **Canadians** , not as another faceless member of the Empire dammit!'_

She knew she should have watched her tongue when England asked her to _'lighten up, love'_ , but she hadn't. Hadn't obeyed the one rule drilled into her since England first acquired her, **_'Never talk back, especially not to those above you.'_**

Anger and impulsivity were to be expected of Australia, but Canada was supposed to be above such childish behaviours. Canada was the model colony; she knew the rules, **followed** the rules.

* * *

_"I'm not a **child** England, I just want you to treat me like a valued member of this empire instead of some trophy! How about allowing me some fucking liberties eh! Like oh, I don't know, allowing me to return home?! Have I not proved myself **more than** capable of taking care of myself in this war?" At England's heinous silence, Canada slammed a palm against the beige, suffocating wall, taking deep satisfaction in the fact that numerous paintings lost their hold on their hooks. Her eyes dark as her gaze pinned him to the floor._

_England took a nearly imperceptible step back at her startling aggression. His action only gave her more courage. Drawing herself up to her full and impressive height, she snarled down at him, "And why must you claim **my** victories and achievements? Do you think I would be unworthy of the praise **I'd** receive?" Canada's voice suddenly grew small as she was hit with a sick realization, "Do you **really** think so little of me?" Silence engulfed the pair as Canada's glaring eyes dared England to respond, to tell her she's wrong._

_Whatever daze had caught the Englishmen in its stranglehold was shattered as England's face contorted with rage. Puffing himself up he closed the gap between them._

_"You **selfish** git! You always were a brat, weren't you!? I've every right to claim those victories, you're **my** colony. Hell, most of your men think themselves British anyway. You should be content deriving your pride from the Empire!" he yelled back, spit flying. Something inside Canada broke at that._

_"I-I… **how** could you?! **I've** **never been unreasonable** , **followed your every order** , and **this** is how you choose to respond?! You **just** answered my last question." Her breathing became laboured as she fought to keep the un-nation like tears from flowing from her violet eyes. She turned sharply on her heel and violently grabbed her hat and overcoat, roughly pulling both items over herself and proceeded towards the door, her thoughts consumed only with getting away. The slam of the front door behind her conveying a sombre note of finality._

* * *

Canada stomped her foot and glared at the concrete beneath her feet at the sudden realization that she wasn't making any progress towards sorting out her feelings. The whole reason she'd run was to come to an understanding without England's yells ringing in her ears. But all she'd managed to do was work herself back up again. _'Way to go Madeline, another fuck-up? Are we going for a new record?'_

Sighing deeply, she massaged her throbbing temple with the inside of her wrist. She turned her head to the dark sky, removing her glasses, allowing her eyes to, for the first time, take in the looming clouds ever-encroaching. Tilting her head to the side as light raindrops began to splash against her snow-like skin. She blinked in quick succession to shed the intrusive droplets from her long lashes. Thunder crashed not to far in the distance, and if she strained her eyes, she could have sworn she'd just seen a flash of lightning strike a tree over the horizon.

_'England will wring your neck if you come back soaking wet and tracking mud into his home. Find some shelter. It's the **least** you can do. You've already pissed England off enough for tonight, don't you think?'_ a cruel voice taunted.

Without sparing the sky another moment, she hitched up her ankle-length cream skirt and began walking again. Hurriedly making her way farther down the winding park's path. She struggled to swallow the ever-growing dread and guilt cocktail rising in her throat.

Why had she ever thought that leaving the house was a good idea? She had been vaguely aware that it was supposed to thunder. But she'd ignored the warnings to instead focus on her mounting frustrations with England. How could she have been so self-centred? England had been right to say she was being selfish. It was so unlike her, normally she'd have been worried sick by the dangers a storm akin to this presented her family.

_'What if they're worried about me? I did leave so suddenly, and I didn't say where I was heading… **oh no**.'_

As she finished the thought, a weight suddenly slammed down on her chest. Her breathing grew panicked and her thoughts quickly spiralled out of control at the realization of the consequences of her rash actions that evening held. Her siblings had to have heard **everything**. The yelling match between herself and England not having been exactly silent.

_'What if they think I don't love them, or worse, I **resent** them? As the eldest of England's children, I'm supposed to take care of them. I'm supposed to be the role model. Why did I **crack**?'_

To say Canada had always been thrilled with England's decisions would have been inaccurate. She'd loathed him after he argued America's side on the Alaska/Yukon border dispute. And personally, she disagreed with his choice of not naming her **"The Kingdom of Canada"** simply because it might piss off America. But regardless, she'd always respected the man, upheld his honour; her loyalty unwavering. So why had she'd snapped? Before she'd just have let him scream at her, what was different today? Was his treatment different than usual or was it because of the war?

Canada's mind was torn from its thoughts as a cold, wet feeling around her ankles startled her. Having been lost in her thoughts she'd let her thick woollen skirt become wet around the bottom. Her quick pace sending her shoes cascading into the increasing number of puddles being the cause. Canada's eyes darted between the lines of trees either side of her.

Being November, all the trees had shed their sheltering leaves, leaving Canada to the mercy of the heavens above her. The longer she walked the closer those clouds appeared, the sense of doom they brought only magnified by the stripped trees and their reaching branches. She couldn't tell if the shiver that racked her body was due to shame, guilt or the unsettling nature of her surroundings.

Just as the thought that perhaps she should turn tail and brave the storm appeared in her mind, she spotted through her fogged glasses what she could only assume was an abandoned railway tunnel in the distance. Deciding the tunnel to be her best option she broke into a full-fledged sprint towards her salvation. With her glasses out of commission, the path in front of her was a blurred mess of white and brown. Arms pumping, she could only pray that she wouldn't trip over any stray cracks or pebbles as she raced forward.

Skidding to a stop within the depths of the tunnel, Canada doubled over, wheezing. It was apparent that the German mustard gas attacks from across no man's land had done quite the number on her lungs. Tearing her blurry gaze from her clenched knuckles atop her shaking knees and coughing dryly, Canada took in the sight the tunnel offered.

The tunnel had a wide opening but as she worked her way deeper in the walls slowly closed in due to the collapsed brick letting in unrestrained dirt, until it was just slightly wider than her arms fully extended either side. However, the ceiling stayed the same height the whole way, higher than her arm extended above her head. The tunnel was closed off maybe fifteen meters in by a wall of brick. The dirt all around was held back by long since faded red brick. _'Father sure loves his brickwork, eh?'_ Canada joked to herself as she wiped her glasses with a cloth taken from her skirt pocket.

_'America would have liked that one'_ a small, traitorous corner of her mind whispered.

Alfred F. Jones, Mr. America.

When it came to him, everything about her became traitorous. And if she wasn't careful, she knew she'd happily disobey England for him. She'd never meant to develop feelings for the younger man and she'd certainly tried to pretend she felt nothing, but she couldn't ignore the way her heart fluttered when she thought of him. Or that whenever his thousand-watt smile showed itself, her breath would catch in her throat most wonderfully.

She could still remember the day they'd met as if it were yesterday. England had taken custody of her after France lost the Seven Year's War and had shown her to her room within his home. Of course, she'd slammed the door in his face the second she could and immediately tried to jump out the second-floor window in a mad dash for freedom.

Unfortunately, England pulled her back through the window in time. Once escape was made impossible by bars on her window, she'd taken to refusing food and drink until he let her go. She supposed he must have gotten tired of dealing with her by the third day because he'd sent someone else up in his stead. Loud heavy knocks thundered against her door despite her repeated refusals to open the door. Eventually, the mystery guest got tired of waiting and simply opened her door.

And there stood the most handsome boy she'd ever laid eyes on. Wheat-blond hair sat upon the boy's head with a single cowlick stubbornly sticking out from the rest. He couldn't have been older than thirteen at the time. He'd greeted her with a wide and genuine smile as he carried in his hands a platter of food. She had intended to reject his offering, but he looked really concerned that she hadn't been eating and seemed determined to get her to eat **something**. How was she supposed to say no to such a genuine smile?

She'd been wary of the food at first, wondering if it had been tampered with. However, sensing her distrust America had eaten some of it promising that it wasn't poison. After she'd eaten, he'd introduced himself as, "New England, but I'd rather you call me Thirteen Colonies." They'd talked for hours after that, sharing funny stories in French, as she couldn't speak English. Once he got called down by England it was then that she realized that if Alfred was under England's rule too, then maybe she'd survive.

Canada doubted he felt the same, and **even if** he did, England had forbidden her from interacting with him after his revolution. And she really did try to obey England's wishes and constantly tried to build a wall between them. But he'd always manage to crack her defences with that damned smile of his.

She knew very well that she shouldn't be caught alone with him and she certainly shouldn't be thinking of jokes he'd like. But no matter the number of times she tried to banish that traitorous voice; it always came back when she'd catch America's baby blues. Canada shook her head, dismissing the thoughts.

_'I **can't** want him.'_

The thought made her heart clench.

_'Why does it have to be **America** I feel this way towards? He's the **one** man I **can't** have!'_

Throwing a delicate hand over the offending organ, she turned to the small puddle of still water not three paces to the right of her. Deciding that a splash of its contents might wake her from the melancholy that enveloped her so, she approached. Despite her light and hesitant footsteps, the sounds ricocheted off the brick, reminding her of the bullet-hell she'd just escaped.

Slowly Canada lowered herself into a crouch, her hands resting on her knees. Tilting her head, she stared at the reflection in front of her. Her chest-length hair had long since loosened from its elegant bun at the base of her skull, the portions in front of her ears having fallen out of place, were framing her face alongside her slashed bangs. Her thin-wire oval glasses making her eyes appear a tad owlish. Below her ears rested a pair of dreamcatcher earrings that hung just above her slim shoulders. A thick cream overcoat atop her salmon button-up blouse was the only article of clothing even slightly fit for the November chill.

Canada blew a stream of air between her ruby-red lips, upwards at her gravity-defying curl before lifting a gentle hand to cup a handful of the sparkling water. Lifting a steady hand upwards, she let the water flow slowly back into the puddle a few times before splashing her face and the back of her neck with the chilly liquid. Despite her good handle of the cold, she couldn't suppress the gasp from the temperature shock.

_'Just like home.'_

A slight smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she thought of her home. Where she would return to if England ever gave the go-ahead. Sighing deeply, she gently dipped her fingers partially back into the comfortable chill. Her gaze was pointed at the wall in front of her, but her mind was elsewhere. Children safely playing, their shouts completely unlike the all too familiar pained screams of their fathers and brothers. Women playfully chastising their loved ones instead of shakily bandaging infected wounds. How she longed to see British Columbia, Alberta, Saskatchewan, Manitoba, Ontario, Québec, Newfoundland and Labrador, Prince Edward Island, Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, Yukon Territory, and Northwest Territories. If she focused hard enough, she could almost see th-

A quick flash of black filled Canada's peripheral vision. Whirling her head to the left as adrenaline shot through her veins, she tried to stand and move away. However, her legs, unbeknownst to her had fallen asleep in her trance. The painful tingles ran up and down her legs causing her to stumble as her legs gave out beneath her sudden weight.

Just as both her hands flung out behind her, preparing to soften her fall, a large warm hand shot out from the pocket of the trench coat. Clasping her right wrist securely, the hand dragged her upwards. Her weight was thrown against the man's strong chest, throwing him off balance too. The man took a few steps back in response until her face rested flat against his chest. His hand moved from her wrist to her shoulder, steadying her balance. Another hand wrapped itself around the small of her back as she pushed off him and looked up at him.

Her legs far behind her, in combination with her leaning against him, made the man above her seem huge. At the shocked expression on her face, his face shifted from a slight frown of concern to a small amused smile that displayed a few surprisingly white teeth.

**"Hey, darlin'."**


End file.
